


As Lost As You And Blind

by persephone_il (the_ragnarok)



Series: Dark Angel [2]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Angst, Bad Theology, M/M, Sadism, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-29
Updated: 2004-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/persephone_il
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't ever learn, do you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Lost As You And Blind

**Author's Note:**

> Thought this was lost forever when the Pit of Voles threw out the explicit fics... found it via the schu/farf LJ community, the archive that took it on back then and the Wayback Machine. Thank you, internet!  
> Also, disclaimer - things in this fic are not portrayals of kink so much as they are of _fucking insanity_. So yeah.

You don't ever learn, do you?

I don't get you, I really don't. I mean, look at you. They kick you, you come running back, and not just because you don't feel it. They kick you where it _hurts_ , and still, there you are.

And then, there's me, and all I've done to force you away only made you come closer. I understand insanity, I understand masochism, but don't you even have an impulse to survive? I've called you names, I gave you scars, I belittled and made fun out of everything you ever held sacred - you did, and you know you did, so don't try and bullshit me. Who's the telepath around here, huh?

And here you go again.

I sit far enough from you to avoid getting spattered by blood, and I hide myself in the darkness, but I don't really care enough to stop you from seeing me. You do. I can see myself in your eye, small and distorted and golden.

And you say, "Give me an answer, Schuldig."

I snort. "Give me a fucking question, how about that?"

You stare. You're quite comfortable staring, aren't you, you arrogant little shit? I can't win like this. Might as well try to stare down a boa constrictor.

I roll my eyes. "We all have a part in His mighty design," I say, in a singsong voice. "Happy now?"

You smile, and your teeth are coated with blood because you tried to deep-throat a knife two minutes ago. The inside of your mouth is a mess of scars. I wonder at your stupidity. It's bad enough that you can't feel. Are you actually trying to lose your sense of taste, as well? "If He is such a grand designer, why doesn't He make His plan so that no one will get hurt by it?"

I shrug and turn away. "He's a sadist. Like me."

I can still feel you staring. "That's not the answer." Your voice is calm, and it's reminding me of my third-grade teacher, what's her name, Miss You're-Not-Trying-Hard-Enough. It's enough to make me sick, and enough to make me go on with this sick game.

Hell, didn't I just say I'm a sadist? "Because your suffering is for your own good."

You say, "But He can bring about the good without causing suffering. Why doesn't He?"

 "Because you wouldn't appreciate it if it came to you without any effort."

I'm still facing away from you, but I can still hear you move. "But I would. I do."

I can hear you going to your knees, on fours on the floor, and I know what comes next. It makes me smile just like a man who's just shot the wife he loathed for twenty-six years. Trust me on this. I turn and move behind you. You're not wearing anything, because the last time you cut yourself up while wearing something Nagi snapped his fingers and broke two of your bones for making him do extra laundry and sewing.

You remembered the agreement, so you haven't bloodied any of the bits I want to use. I've had, unwillingly, both necrophilia and the kind of sadism that uses knives, and I'd rather not remember it. You're actually pretty considerate, when it comes to stuff like this.

It's tricky, using telepathy for autonomous muscle reactions, but what the hell, I'm an overachiever and it takes less time than prepping someone manually. You've cut your shoulder pretty deep just a minute or two ago, so there's plenty of fresh blood for lubrication.

I've been hard ever since I've seen you here, crawling into the darkness of my room. Pavlov's dogs have nothing on me.

As I take off my pants, I say, "Well, is that what you call being fucking grateful? Look at you. You've been given a perfectly functioning body, and what do you do with it? Cut it up and leave it for sickos like me to play with." I never wear underpants, why the hell bother, and only sad and repressed people wear shoes inside their own house. Once the pants drop I just grab you in one hand, my dick in the other, aim and _push_.

While I'm taking a moment to get my breath back, you say, "I am but His instrument. If he wants me to be different, why doesn't he make me?"

I grunt because, fuck, you're hot inside, then swallow and say, "Shut up. You never get anywhere with--" I draw out, then slam back in, and I can't stop rubbing the little scar over your hipbone - not that scar, _this_ one - with my thumb. "--That kind of reasoning. 'Why doesn't He do this, why doesn't He do that'... You're such a--" Thrust. "Fucking--" Thrust. "Masochist..." Thrust, thrust, oh my fucking god...

God, I love your voice, scratchy and rough and such a fucking turn- on, and you talk to me, you say, "I am nothing, I am a weapon, I am yours. Yours, please..." And then my pleasure leaks into your mind and you make noises, like you'd be screaming if you hadn't practically torn your vocal cords off already.

Eventually I get up and march off to the bathroom for a towel. Nagi and Brad are asleep, but I don't really care. Wouldn't be the first time they politely ignored me as I flashed them. I take another towel back after cleaning up ang go back to my room. I throw it on you and say, "Get up already. You're washing my floor first thing tomorrow morning."

You snort. "You never wake up in the morning."

 "First thing tomorrow noon, then. What did I tell you about getting up?"

But you don't. You never do, I never really expect you to. You crawl to me and wrap yourself around my feet. I kick you a bit so I have space to sit down. I sigh as you put your head on my hip and your arms around my waist. I run my fingers through your hair and ask, "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?"

 "Use me. Give me a purpose."

I've known more masochists inside out than most people get to know on a first name basis, and I know the inside of your mind better than I know my own. What you've got isn't quite masochism, not the usual kind. Masochism is sexual; you can't have sex with anyone but me, both because team regulations have a clause saying "Farfarello may not have sex with anyone but Schuldig" and because, well, why bother when you can't feel anything? And you don't get off on violence. Well, emotionally, yes. Sexually, no.

What you are is a theologist, and a pretty good one, once you get past the whining "But Why?" parts. Your problem is, you keep getting stuck on those aforementioned parts, so you're always stuck on some sort of mental elevator going up-down-up without control. You hate God, you love God, you wish God would just make up His mind and kill you already. I'm the only one who's ever had sex with you, but frankly, God is the only one you've ever been in a relationship with.

My Christianity is a bit rusty, but I have this fleeting feeling that being jealous of God is some kind of mortal sin.

You're already asleep. You could go on with mindless killing for days, but sex gets you to drop right off. It's almost as if you trust me, you poor idiot.

I drop a little kiss on your head. I'd never do this if you knew, because you're not stupid, and you'd see right through me. You'd know that I'm only going along with this thing for the free sex and because I enjoy playing God. You'd know that any kind of tenderness I show you is because I'm trying to mess you up further, so I can have a good laugh at your account. Never mind that you've saved my life a thousand times and vice versa, never mind that you're making yourself so vulnerable to me it's making my heart ache in fear for you, never mind that sex with anyone but you feels repetitive, mechanical, so boring that it's not even fun without the mindfucks.

Never mind that I always do what you ask me for, even when, and this is _not_ a fucking cliche, it hurts me more than it hurts you.

I'm an assassin, a sadist, a general asshole, and proud of all of these. Next to me, you're a goddamned saint. I'm not your priest, I'm not your fucking nun of a mother, and as much as I wish, I'm not God. I did not sign for this. You know me, and you know I back out of the contract as soon as it stops suiting me.

Guess you don't know me this well, after all.


End file.
